This is the post that also goes on and on because I haven’t posted in a couple days and I actually have time to write. It’s long winded. Suck it up.

Happy Easter!

Easter has never been a religious holiday for me. As a child I was not raised with religious beliefs; I have a vague idea of what Easter is about, much to my paternal grandparents dismay. Jesus, resurrection, a cross, blah, blah, blah… ask me to recite something from the bible and I will just give you a blank stare and change conversation topics rather steadfast.

To me, Easter is chocolate, bunnies, eggs and family. In that order.

The family, though we tend to be somewhat close, grates on my last nerve. My mom, bless her heart, is quite a character. She’s overbearing, opinionated, protective… quite frankly. A nag. She means well, I know that; but there’s only so much a person can handle and she is the epitome of Too. Much. I find myself compelled to ingest my entire bottle of anti-depressants to be tailed by the contents of my liquor cabinet (read: top of the fridge in the basement) in preparation for her arrival.
My step-dad has a heart of gold and the patience of a Saint (though he’s an atheist), which play a HUGE part in his ability to tolerate my mom’s backseat driving, OCD-like cleaning habits, incessant need to state the obvious, constant bickering unique characteristics.

I feel guilty that I don’t have the patience that he has; patience like his are a true virtue in every sense of the word. I find myself constantly short with my mom; I can’t help it. When she carries on and on I want to tell her to shut up, but resist the urge while I bite my tongue. As my thoughts drift to other things (like laundry, mopping, cleaning the soffits) I smile and nod as she carries on.

When people tell me I am like my mom I tend to retort rather quickly that I am nothing like her. Am I perceived to others as I see my mom? She’s really not a bad person; she can be delightful at times, she caring and loving (to the point where it can be suffocating).

Until now, I haven’t blogged much about my family. This is the first in-depth post really. It kinda makes me a little nervous and sweaty. I don’t have anything to hide; it’s just a part of my life that I don’t really share, for their sakes. Many members of my family tend to have more pride then I, and are very much about keeping family issues just that: family issues.
But for me, this is a release. I keep everything bottled up until I explode and Mike, the poor bastard, must suffer the wrath of my continued embellishment of everything family that just irks me.

And since my pride is not that of my family members, I am not shy to share. It’s nothing horrifically embarrassing or terribly tragic. Sorry.

:::

More answers to your questions:These question works well in conjunction with my post: Suburban Oblivion wonders “Do you feel like you had a normal childhood?”

Is there such thing anymore? I don’t even know what normal is.
My parents divorced when I was 2 years old, shortly after the birth of my younger brother. My mom raised as best she could while living off only the child support provided by my dad; $1000 a month; she returned to the work force when my brother and I started school.
She made a modest living and provided us with the necessities. She was always there for us. which was more important then anything money could ever buy. We had many happy times as children and I have quite a few fond memories. So, for the most part, I’d say yes. We had a “normal” childhood.

Emily asked me to expand on #49 of my 100 things: “I hadn’t seen my aunt for 8 years and when I saw her this past February she was a complete bitch to me”

This is our family drama - for the maternal side of my family as the paternal side is especially secretive, I don’t even know most of it.
It started in the mid-90’s when my mom’s Godmother passed away. She was a hearty woman, typical European elderly lady I’ve come to realize. The booming sound of her deep Hungarian voice always made me nervous; I’d shyly approach her only to have my cheeks pinched as though the skin was cleaved from my tiny skull. I don’t remember much about her expect, her husband had passed away many years before I was born, she spent her winters in Florida and she was wealthy.
After she passed, her Last Will and Testament was burned by another family member (not a family member of mine) and her money was stolen. My mom spent years and all her savings trying to bring this person to justice; which she somewhat succeeded years later.
My mom had asked her sisters to help fund the attorney only to be told that this was her fight and they wanted no part of it; they only wanted information, with no risk.

My grandpa then passed away in 1998 of cancer. He was a strong and wonderfully bitter Hungarian man with tons of love for his family. Sadly, at the time of his passing our family was still at odds because of the conflict that was ensuing with this legal battle to bring those thieves to justice.
He had some requests before he passed; such that my grandma didn’t move in with any of the three girls, he wanted her to retain her independence. He did not want his Last Rights read to him, and he wanted to go peacefully in the comfort of his own home. Unfortunately, none of these wishes were carried. My mom was livid that her father’s dying wishes were not carried out; as much as she tried to fight for him, she lost. At that point all ties were cut. I was too young, and too self absorbed to realize the impact that this had caused.

Seven years later, February 2006, I went to see my Grandma who now lives with one of my aunts. Carter was born and I only thought it was fair for her to meet her first born great-grandchild. When I arrived, my aunt was there; she was cold, bitter and made snide remarks my entire visit, as if verbally abusing me would make her feel better about her conflict with my mother, because really, her rivalry is not with me at all. I haven’t seen or heard from either of them since.

Keep those questions coming!!

When you’ve met “the one” you know. You just do. There’s something about the way your heart skips a beat when you see them approach; the way you forget to breath when you hear their voice, and the way you ache to be near them when they’re gone. You wonder if you’d survive a moment without them in your life. It’s unmistakable the way they make you feel.

Though some times the light at the end of the tunnel seems bleak, that person can make you smile. You forget all your troubles with the tiniest gesture, a hug, one gentle kiss; everything that once seemed so profound is suddenly minuscule.
That person can, without even trying, brighten your day; make you feel alive, love life.

I’ve found that person. I (finally) married him two years ago today.

He’s the person that I am at my utmost comfortable self with. Not a care in the world, because no matter how loud I burp, or fart, his looks of antipathy cannot disguise the utter adoration (or jealousy cuz I’m better at expelling gas then him).

After seven years together, we still laugh and love like it was the first time. Mike is my rock. He is my love, my one and only, my life. I love him like a fat kid loves cake.

Today while washing dishes together, Mike had a rather large knife in his hand and requested the dry towel I had hanging haphazardly over my shoulder; I leaned in for him to take it, but instead he just wiped the knife blade as the towel remained on my shoulder. I moved to avoid the shiny sharp edge that we strategically aimed towards my jugular.

He says: “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to hurt you!”
To which I reply, “I know hon; just not keen to have a knife blade aimed at my throat.”
Mike then retorts: “I’d strangle you before I’d stab you. That way I can watch your life be slowly drained away- kinda like you do to me every. damn. day.”

See how thoughtful he is? *swoon* I’m so in love.

Happy Anniversary honeybear.

number of sickies: one toddler
days without shower: 2
puddles of vile disgusting vomit to clean: 5+
number of horrid overflowing diarrhea diapers: 3
nights without sleep: 3

the opportunity to lie and cuddle my toddler while watching him sleep blissfully : PRICELESS

We’ve made it over the hump (I think). Carter was at daycare today and wasn’t sent home, so that was a bonus. He’s been more or less himself, with exception for a HUGE absolutely vile diarrhea shit that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I was debating skipping bath time tonight, since Mike was coming home late; frankly, I don’t enjoy bath time. It’s something that Mike does really well and I tend to pass on it when he’s not here, unless it’s necessary.

But Carter had other plans. No need to share (more) of the gore-ish details, I’m sure many have been there before.

But. it. was. not. pleasant. I think I need to bleach the entire bathroom.

Bad news. I’ve started to feel a little queasy since dinner. I hope it was my cooking and nothing else.

Off to wallow in my self pity for the night in front of the tube.

Oh, before I go.

Excuse Me Mister,
I can understand the desire to be clean and freshly shaved (trust me, I crave that as well). I can even understand being in a hurry and not wanting to waste another precious moment; but please, while you’re shaving the back of your hairy neck on the highway during hush hour, please don’t dump your electric razor holding cartridge as I drive behind you. Once, okay maybe. But three times? If I see you again, I will ram the back of your car while you’re shaving your jugular.

Sincerely,
Yours Truly

(Gosh, everything I’ve been writing lately makes my stomach turn)

Dear Jay-seus, someone help me through this day.

I am not disgusted by too many things, but wookies and vomit are my vices. I’d rather lick the side of my toilet bowl then deal with either of them. That might be an over exaggeration, but it’s not far from the truth. I didn’t think there was truly anything worse then seeing someone throw up. But there is. Oh, is there ever. A toddler that just doesn’t know what to do when they barf.

Carter has his first real stomach bug. Bastard stomach bug has finally reached our house. Thanks for nothing! Last night while visiting my parents Carter was running and playing, chasing their dog then stopped dead in his tracks. and. puked. Projectile vomit everywhere. I froze. I couldn’t react (or didn’t want to), I just turned and walked away; Mike ended up having to clean him while my dad cleaned the floor.
Poor kid was scared shitless since he had no idea what was happening to him, and all I could picture was that scene from Big Daddy when “Frankenstein” was doing the Kangaroo Dance and pukes everywhere. My initial reaction was the same as “Sonny’s” - cover the puke with newspaper and walk away. I so could have done that.

After three expulsions of fluids and dinner, I figured that we may have overstayed our welcome and headed home.

This morning has been more of the same. Except I have to take care of it all by myself. *gag* Thinking that he may be a little better I gave him a bottle when he woke. That lasted all of 45 minutes before it was all over me and the blanket we had to protect the couch as we cuddled. Fucking sick. Oh so fuckin’ gross. I started to gag as I rushed him to the kitchen ceramic floor. All I could think about was myself, how horrible of a mother am I? Just don’t get more on me, please, don’t. get. more. on. me.
Breakfast consisted of the norm - crackers and water because that’s all I ever give my child. But those came back up too. Then another time… after a bath he’s in bed. Hopefully for a LONG time; just sleep it off.

I can’t stomach anything now from the lurking aroma of vomit. I’ve laid down the newspaper to soak up it up until Mike comes home, and have candles going in ever corner of the house but they have yet to de-funk the odour. I wanna curl up in the fetal position and hide. I don’t want to do this anymore!

And to top it all off, I smell like something the neighbours cat (because mine’s a chicken shit) puked up since I can’t have a shower yet as they’re working on my crack(ed) pipe. FUCK! Make. this. day. end!